Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
VI. ConsolationLines to the Memory of Annie
Harriet Beecher Stowe (18111896)I
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,
And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.
Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;
And when he walks, each floweret to his will
With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.
In the mild summer radiance of his eye;
No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,
Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.
Are nurseries to those gardens of the air;
And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,
Watching the growing of his treasures there.
O’erwatched with restless longings night and day;
Forgetful of the high, mysterious right
He holds to bear our cherished plants away.
Needs the fair presence of an added flower,
Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:
At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.
Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,
Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,
The angels hail an added flower of love.
Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,
Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye
Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.
Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,
That the bleak climate of this lower sphere
Could never waken into form and light.
Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;
Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,
Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.